Iron Sea
Iron Sea One Autumn. Februa, year 7,539. The girl awoke to the cold company of a darkened space. A cell, something with a shape of which was visually incomprehensible, and she was stuck with a state of blind sensory guesses. She felt her hands bound and mouth gagged shut with a tight cloth of some tattered description. In all this numbed fumbling for cognition, she was soon to shake off the gentle meekness of sleep. The memories were to soon enclose here like a flood. She began to fall downwards. She was captured. Gagged and bound, stripped and thrown into the back of a truck. To her capturers, it was seen fit to gag a woman and throw her into captivity without remise, battered black and fed a handful of bitter pellets like a hound lining up for its monthly deworming. This girl was a prisoner of war, one among many billions taken on this very day, and she could only let herself assume the worst possible end destination for somebody like herself: slavery. There was to descend upon her a sense of zero dignity, a sense that she was now depleted to a state of absolute worthlessness. She felt like an object now, almost feeling like she was already being treated like an ornament scooped up from the battlefield, a quickly withering flower, sent off to the victory merchandise market and exchanged for loose coinage. She was certain there were others with her; she was sure that she could hear faint sounds of shuffling, struggles, perhaps evens breaths behind the walls of her enclosure… and certain or not, it did little to reinforce her heart's self-defence. The minor comfort of mob reassurance it granted was the only thing that felt warm and starkly comforting, and yet in time this sole security only went as far to achieve the absolute opposite in terms of reassurance. She was a slave. It repeated and twisted itself through her mind continuously, all she could do to handle her agony was weep. Weep a muted chapter of disgust and indescribable loneliness, of rejection, of societal mutilation. It wasn’t just her that was destroyed. It was her society. An hour of hushed and confined tears was what it took to realise this fate of hers, dragged up from a haze of past memories cast aside by the strength of an industrial grade, anaesthetic-forced sleep. She could undoubtedly feel the movement of the vehicle as it travelled across an unknown span of terrain, yet her passage of time was thrown off balance with the weighted desire to succumb to her drowsiness after the passing of the final conscious hour. Even this freedom was taken from her. Of the things she witnessed before her capture, it was the forced act of removing all but the bare minimum of what she wore to shatter her the greatest. She was a shivering heap of pale skin, coiled up with what little linen was required to give her the sole right she was now reduced to: the dignity of an attractive and publicly acceptable stall-life. It terrified her. The cold hard reality was that it seemed her sexuality was now the only thing that was to keep her alive for the rest of her life. Perhaps sexual acts would be her only currency, stale scraps her only nourishment. Her morality would without a doubt degrade as the years dragged on, as the end of a whip would become the only thing she'd know. For some reason her logic and reliance on fact had finally managed to betray her. The foreboding pain these thoughts brought was very real, even if they were only based upon assumption. In reality she was almost entirely unsure of the customs of the mysterious people that had conquered her home, but she could with great certainty assume the worst. They demonstrated unthinkable violence to the people around her, treating the weak like cattle, whilst any man or woman who had the stomach to pick up a rifle and fight was gunned down without the slightest change of enemy morale. It was as if the more murders committed heightened the enemies’ sense of satisfaction. The impure were already entrenched, fired at and buried. The old, the non-white, the children. She was one of the few to be spared. This wasn’t assumption; it could have very well have been absolute certainty for all she knew. This genocide took hold with little resistance. It was raw chaos, and chaos was a disease, a flaw of the human condition that was impossible to keep permanently hidden. History never failed to prove this, no matter how many times a society wishes to clutch onto its mistakes and stride forward. Even the greatest and supposedly purest of ecclesiarchs - the rulers of her home spatial empire - fabled within the stories of her ancestors had eventually succumbed to their blackest of desires. Complacency and stagnation infected every single one of them like a parasite, and it ruptured and tore at the very fabric of the Empyrian moral and lawful structure until all that was left was pure destruction. It could have only been worse for the empires beyond the ancient grasp of what Empyria used to be, empires ignorant to the philosophies which made the union great. The sad part was... this view was just as true as it was naive. Not a single textbook from the hands of these foreign space dwellers contradicted this, even mere propaganda texts. Her thoughts soon fell upon a more recent past. In defiance of this chaos, her people resisted. Her home world of L`Orlan saw the fires of this cataclysm from afar as it lay nestled at the very edge of Empyria. With the explosion of revolution on home soil, her people destroyed the very destructor and brought home the laurels of fame, and soon L`Orlan was christened a free world, bathed in the aspirations to endure millennia of prosperity and peace. It was to become a flame deep within a heart of darkness. But when all hope seemed to have blossomed, another chaos sought to extinguish it: The fleet of a tiny kingdom somehow gaining an impossible momentum as it flung itself toward the stars. The white army; "Angliya". L`Orlan had barely stood a lifetime before it fell. They flew in from the clouds upon golden starships, completely alien in shape and make. Fleets of white soldiers and companies upon companies of marbled tanks affixed with flags of gold and carbon black flanked every village, bombarded every city, broke the backs of every Empyrian army within mere weeks of fighting. Cavalry and light tank platoons was nothing against a sea of diesel-heaved iron. A defence force trained for centuries upon the childish values of peacetime efforts was little more than a soft opposing current to the tide of an Empire. And of all the things they could have taken, even Dominick was laid waste to. She muttered his name to herself. Her intense passage of thought began to break apart. It was too much. She couldn’t get herself to think anymore. Nothing felt good to her now, nothing remotely worth remembering and hoping for. It was all so pointless. Life felt utterly meaningless. The aspirations of an entire stellar empire, the aspirations of a single star system and its people, even aspirations of a single girl was shut away. None of it was allowed to exist, regardless of how large or small, and it all fell right in front of her eyes as if its demise was predetermined the very day it was born. Was it really worth being alive, when existing as insentient stardust was a billion times more peaceful and controlled? The vehicle heaved to a halt. She ceased all thought and opened her eyes just in time for them to be overwhelmed by a cold white light. The door to her individual cell was slid aside, and she was collared and chained. She tried to squeal and sob but her mouth was so tightly gagged that she could only choke. A pull. She couldn't yet see a thing, she was bewildered. There was a stern yell towards her direction in a language completely unlike what she had ever heard. It was fluid, non-abrasive, slithered with serpentine sound around her ears, and absolutely nothing like Dominish in all its forms. It was a hostile language. She tried to comply, but had no clue as to what she was instructed to do, trying to speak resulted in more muffled ramblings. With another heavy pull, she involuntarily slid out of the truck and onto her weak feet. Gasping in exhaustion, she stumbled, barely attempting to maintain balance. This state she was in. It was disgusting. Before her, blurred shapes began to take form. Soldiers. Several squads, maybe an entire platoon. A city. Dozens of other slaves beside her, most of which were women in their mid-forties, and many fellow workers she well recognised, all nevertheless reduced to the same-near nude state she was in. She felt a sharp stab come from within her stomach. She felt as if she was going to be sick. She was the only young person here. The first choice, the only choice here and now that was physically fit to fill the entire repertoire of slave duty. Immediately the girl lost the energy to stand, falling to her knees. "We need a translator immediately! Corporal Gates, get me on the line with Warrant Officer Alltid, and now!" Another soldier strode over to her. With rifle in hand, he tapped its bayonet on her forehead, edging her to resume standing position. It was almost as if he was bored, as if this was normal to the point of tedium for him. "Get up." He spoke in a half-stern voice, rather aware of the girls’ inability to understand him. She shot up into standing position again, frightened, almost weaving from side to side she was barely able to stand straight, let alone restrain the contents of her stomach from expunging and omitting themselves. She began to tear up. "Aww what'd you do that for? Nice going sergeant, you've made the little kid cry." Came a voice from the sidelines. He was indeed laughing. Just further certainty of the lowness of where she was headed. The rifled man remained silent, unresponsive to his comrade's banter. He looked away. Something seemed distant and misplaced within his eyes. A uniformed man broke the concession of the khaki-coloured soldiers, striding forward as his dark grey trench coat flared and tailed at his heels. With a swift hand, he re-adjusted the peak of his officer's cap. Atop it lay a silver, jagged rune vaguely shaped like the letter X, worn proudly like it had some divine connotation. He walked straight up to the girl before he proceeded to lean over, condescendingly looking her in the eyes. The gaze was not returned. He opened his mouth to form heavily accented but greatly familiar Dominish words. "Aloxh, little one. My, I'm surprised you're still alive and unblemished. You're definitely a flower aren't you." He stood upright, switching briefly back to Anglian tongue, "Un-gag her, and bring me a glove. I refuse to dirty my hands with Stagnant filth." He barked. A soldier hurried over behind her. Hands scuffled around the knot behind her head as the gag was torn off. She clenched her teeth and whimpered, refusing to look the officer in the eye. He slipped on a lent leather glove belonging to an undefined Sergeant and clasped her chin, pulling her face up into view of his own. "What is your name, little one?" Amongst the haze of fear and the will to burst into a terrified wail, she knew that refusal would be the last thing this man wanted to hear. She cleared her throat and opened her mouth, "E… Alaric. Emilia ѵon." "Alaric region. Excellent. We have our culprits. Calligraphers, information keepers. Propagandists. Excellent work, second platoon. Get me Lord Callisto on the transcom, he'll be delighted to hear that they're all alive, haha, perhaps even complete with a little 'extra' surprise on the side." Emilia's eyes widened, glaring in fear away from his glance as he stood up. He allowed himself a slight smirk as he looked away. Emilia further observed him through teary eyes. Complacency: the man ate it up like sweet nectar. "What's going to happen with me…" she whispered, wanting to know the answer, yet half hoping this man would not hear her. He turned his head to glare at her. He smiled, clasping his hands in an almost unnatural glee. "Put a smile on that face of yours. Didn't your mummy ever tell you frowning causes wrinkles?" It was the only thing he said. A corporal walked up to him, handing his superior the earpiece fragment of a back-mounted, cheaply painted metal telecommunication device hoisted over and behind his shoulders. "Lord Callisto, sir. He requests you on the line." The officer grabbed the phone with a swipe, smiling again as he spoke into the mouthpiece. "My dear Lord, what is it that I am graced to converse with you?" He paused. His expressions changed slightly, and nodded to himself. "Right away sir. The platoon and I will wait for your arrival. Might I mention, sir, we have managed to scrape up a little something on top of what you requested.” He mentioned with a smirk, making a brief glance towards Emilia, “I’d like to think of it as a gift of mine to... grace the eloquence your sovereignty.” Handing the phone back to the corporal and slipping of his left glove for it to be soon returned, he checked his watch, before relaying orders to his troops. "Second platoon. With the arrival of Lord Callisto and his immediate decision with the quality of our stock, we have been requested to oversee the safe passage of this filth through the city toward the new Governmental Palace. Standby for orders..." Emilia was gagged once more, and willingly she let herself fall apart, bursting into a heap of tears, hugging her chest and pulling legs tightly together with the violent thought that she was not going to let anybody touch her. Within minutes, a gleaming ivory limousine with sterile white rubber tires pulled onto the road behind the line of soldiers, bonnet-mounted flags flapping lazily. A tuxedoed driver quickly strode out around the front of the vehicle, opening its side door outwards quickly. Headed at the fore by three security officials, a noble-featured trenchcoated man stepped out, rather plain looking compared to his subordinates. “Attention!!” Barked the Warrant Officer. The platoon was to immediately assume formation, saluting in trained unison with palms explicitly outward as the showering sound of boot soles hammered against the concrete. “Hail Anglia!” He commanded, followed by a momentous chant of the soldiers in reply. “Hail Emperor Andromeda, Hail the little prince, by god, why not hail his bloody dog. At ease, men.” Came a shrewd comment from Lord Callisto, accompanied by puffs of fine tobacco dispensed from an ornate pipe held in hand. He gazed up at the slaves that lay before him, just in time for the girl to catch an unforgiving glint with the eyes he hid under a sour coloured Tam O’Shanter. She squinted her eyes shut defensively. Two Three Years Later. Opening his eyes after a series of repeated blinks to fight off the vile winter wind, the young man quickly stepped through a duo of large, quickly-closing wooden doors, swiftly apologising as he savoured the mild personal accomplishment of managing to dart his way through right on time. He found himself plunged into a mob of barely-graduated young soldiers, all clumped up within the hall and dressed in crisp grey uniforms much like his own, chatting and gas-bagging away without a care in the world. He picked out a familiar mob of faces within the crowd and joined them, knocking shoulders aside as he stepped within the ranks of his long-time squad of three years. “What took you so long.” Came a harsh comment from a random conscript from within the crowd. “Fucking Orѵisch, as expected of a bloody draftee. Wasting my bloody time again, as per usual.” Came a stabbing comment from a soldier on his right by the name of Corporal Johnson, a malicious, boyish smirk slapped up across his face. “Gee, what a pain in the neck.” was a slur from the mouth of a Private by the last name of Ellison. “Yeah, good one. I’m not late am I?” Orѵisch cussed in that certain formal tone he could never get rid of, hurriedly patting his uniform free of crease and fluff. It seemed almost nothing had changed in all these years. Only the bonds between the people he was trying his best not to hate grew stronger and stronger to the point where he could no longer tell whether or not it was genuine comradeship he was feeling. Faintly behind this liberally applied glee and general jovial feeling, he felt certain the future was going to destroy this comfort. Orѵisch hastily added, “Colonel Burnett hasn’t…” “Right on time, son.” Interrupted a voice from his opposite side, giving him a short reassuring glance. It was the first of the bunch, Staff Sergeant Oberhardt, a veteran of a platoon filled to the brim with overconfident boys in men’s clothes. A decorated man suddenly entered, walking between the crowd as they eagerly filed aside. “Attention!” was the yell of a CO within the crowd. The crowd ceased chatter as their voices transfused into the sound of boot soles and cloth-ruffle of swift salutes. “Hail Anglia!” they chanted. The young Private Orѵisch made every effort to chant along as proudly as they did, even though the words forced a deep and bitter wound into his stomach every time he recited this so-called soldier’s hail. The officer took place at the fore of the hall, both hands clasped in front of his belt. He glanced around with moderate sternness, observing the fresh uniforms and spotless spirit kept behind the eyes of every single one of them. “At ease.” He spoke, taking a glance at a clock that sat at the back of the room impatiently. This wasn’t the first time he’d made eye contact with this dastardly timekeeping device. He cleared his throat and hurried himself along. “Young men of Anglia. From today onward you have crossed the gates of manhood of which you have wishfully gazed upon for eighteen years. The greatest years of your lives await; the battle awaits! The unclean must be purged, the uneducated rallied up and taught, the ways of Novanglianism must be propagated. Uncountable fields lay before you, and there is none but you who are are worthy enough to impregnate them with the will of God!” To Dominick von Orѵisch, these phrases erupted from his mouth like vomit, all whilst the rest of his comrades stood at the edges of their toes, gobbling up and gorging themselves on every single utterance. It had been so long that Orѵisch had grown to know nothing different, “...Now, I’m sure you’ve banged your heads together and have had yourselves sifted free of the the weak during the years you’ve spent within Anglia Youth and advanced military training, but this is no picnic! As the old saying goes, war separates the boys from the men!” The feeling of pride swelled and inflated so indescribably quickly, burning a white hot, pure flame. It was as if he could feel this exuberance within the soldiers around him burn his skin, “It will be the most gruelling and excruciating thing you will ever face in your lives, but you are all well aware of this. I have faith in every single one of you to overcome this goal! Anglian men are the strongest and most brilliant within all of space!” The crowd exploded into aggressive, abnormally happy cheers. The general smiled to himself slightly, so faintly that Dominick was unsure whether or not it was a hallucination brought about by mob mentality. “And this space lies before you, ready for conquest!” He closed in upon himself. He let himself go, raising a fist, cheering from the top of his lungs in unison with the crowd, violently, pridefully, all while emptiness resided within. This was the absolute opposite of what made him a person, and all the while Orѵisch was every bit a part of it. He had grown to accept the existence of this phenomenon in only three years, being forced down his throat and swallowed like a good little Anglian boy... the one everyone thought he was. The value of this life was spread so thin that it had grown transparent. He hadn’t seen a single glimpse of the warfare he was expecting to take part in, and already he was losing grip of the will to live. But deep down, he knew he had to fight. There was nothing else but this. He had no choice any more, for by all legal entitlement he was nothing less than a slave, and to live and be treated as an equal - even amongst men of a morality so primal and distorted - was the only figment of reality that reminded him of what he used to be. A memory suddenly awoke. A girl he used to know. Was she alive? This couldn’t be the only thing he had left. The final thing that went through his head before the cheering dropped down and his immediate deportation back to reality was the name of somebody that he had long forgotten, somebody he was so close to that he perhaps regarded her as a moral alter ego. The memory emitted pain with the touch. Emilia ѵon Alaric. Her name… it was all too familiar now. “Oh dearest Emilia…” Category:Stories